Bardhwyn rode hard out of Amon Sul, harder than she ought but her horse, Courage, was keen - always keen - to run at a gallop whenever able. Her head ached fiercely and her bruised ribs burned down the left side of her chest and with every strike of Courage’s leading leg it felt as if her spine were jamming itself up into her skull. She marvelled that she was still alive.
A cold drizzle began to fall and with Courage’s speed the the rain lashed into her eyes, mixing with the hot tears she’d been fighting. Bardhwyn eased her horse back to a trot and desperately tried to collect herself. Tears? They were a luxury she couldn’t afford; she didn’t deserve! They were something other women were allowed, not her. Her reasoning failed her and the tears pressed in.
Gavin’s face came to her once again. She remembered his fear, the tears of fright streaming down his scarred and branded face, of him begging her to help him just as the coarse sack was dropped over his head followed by the rope. He was sixteen and branded a traitor because he had deserted and deserted because he was lured into the army at too young an age with empty promises of coin and glory. He came to Clan Harlond as so many had; out of desperation.
He never once said her name. He could have easily betrayed her but he didn’t. Gavin died keeping her secret.
She looked down at the thick, black satchel that hung at her hip; inside it a mine of information - a treasure trove! Maps, plans, rosters, letters. Had Gavin called her by name the same mob would have descended upon her, she would have never discovered the assasin’s den - for that is what these black clad men were, assasins - they were too skilled and too dangerous to be mere soldiers - she would have never found these documents and come to understand what had to happen next.
If it were not for Gavin, Bardhwyn would have never woken up.
If it weren't for Calmacil and his half-brother, Cyrion, Bardhwyn would never had survived. They were safe and alive, however, back in Amon Sul ...
“Thank you,” she breathed, blinking up to the grey, drizzled sky. "Thank you all..."
More of the cold rain mixed with hot tears. She buried her face into her red, cold hands and sobbed, resisting the urge to crumple over and succumb to the press of the memories that threatened to overwhelm her: memories of the last few days jostled with the reclaimed memories of the past several weeks - of Calmacil and Cyrion taking her on, keeping her safe, of squabbling over her, of them fighting and lying for her.
The recollections of the generosity she had met followed, memories of strangers giving with open hands and hearts. There were older memories, too, of running, of hiding and of the bitterest hunger she could ever remember. The oldest memory was one of being pushed into her saddle by Thar, who she could barely see for the blood that streamed into her eyes; her blood. "Ride, hard! Go! Get out of here!" he yelled, slapping Courage into a run with the flat of his sword. He could well be dead, now.
Most frightening of all, however, was her recollection of the horror that came with the not-knowing; not knowing who she was or where she came from. Not knowing the places she wandered or the people she met. She had been empty, flat, devoid of a sense meaning and purpose and that terror still hovered about her, like a shadow that threatened to descend and attach itself at any moment. The thought made her shudder. What surprised her more, however, was seeing into the dark part of her heart that wished the oblivion would return and take her; all black and bottomless.
She howled, long and loud, her voice careening and ricocheting among the young trees and thick brush of the forest she’d stopped before.
“I WILL NOT BE BROKEN!” she screamed, pumping her curled fist into the sky. “DO YOU HEAR?! NEVER!!” She pressed her hands to her face once again. “I won’t, I can’t, I can’t...” she murmured into her wet palms.
She pulled her hands away, raised her head and breathed in the morning air hoping its freshness would shift the jagged, shattered feeling she was left with.
A fleck of movement caught her eye.
She’d stopped her horse at the top of a small but gradual rise that afforded her a bit of perspective over the landscape; before her a new forest had taken root, behind her lay the gradual decline of scrub and brush land that was east of Amon Sul. She could see there, far in the distance, two riders on horseback traveling fast in her direction and she knew immediately who they were; Calmacil and Cyrion. Where she was going she did not want them to follow - for the sake of their lives.
“Damn Fool Idiots!” she spat. “You have no idea what you're doing...!! Argh!!” She took up the reins to her mount and spoke to him in a language she rarely uttered and using her mount's first name: “Noro Róvan Elethril!! Noro!*”
Courage reared and pawed the air with his hooves before leaping into the full gait of a gallop. Together they sped northeastwards.
*Run hard, Elethril! Run!”